So then, it was probably time to begin.
Half a dozen Keldabe II-class battleships lined up in a broad front, covering their positions in the upper and lower tiers and on the flanks with Crusader II-class corvettes.
Seemingly — nothing supernatural about this formation.
A classic echeloned close-order defense formation, taught as basics at the Imperial Military Academy.
A self-sufficient formation, designed for smaller ships to protect larger ones from air attacks.
I myself had positioned ships like this more than once.
The only problem was that this formation was completely useless against the forces I'd brought.
The Chimaera, the Motivator, the Death's Head, the Krueger, the Point of No Return, and the Twilight.
Six Imperial-class Star Destroyers, supported by another three Interdictor-class Star Destroyers: the Eternal Wrath, the Sentinel, and the Binder.
This was nearly a double advantage in firepower on this section of the front.
And the enemy didn't even know about everything.
Because on our side, there were also eighteen corvettes participating — the Raiders and the same Crusader IIs.
We outmatched the enemy in firepower and numbers.
The chosen defensive formation was irrational.
In the current battle, being in the minority, the only chance for success was a breakthrough by the forces of the "Zann Consortium."
To launch an attack, something like an "Ackbar Slash."
But definitely not a blind defense.
In conditions of communication shortages and the need to protect cargo ships, the worst thing you could do was go on the defensive.
Any tactical manual would indicate that they simply need to close into a brawl to deprive us of the ability to concentrate turbolaser fire on a few ships out of their total number.
Which is exactly what we are doing now.
"Sir, the Interdictors report that all three ships have deployed gravity trawls and are firing on target number five."
Consequently, three destroyers are now concentrating their fire on a single Keldabe II.
For the six remaining large ships of our strike group, four Keldabe II–class vessels are frankly a trivial opponent.
And the enemy cannot fail to realize this.
So the question arises — what is the purpose of this suicidal formation, where we will clearly win even if we don't budge and keep engaging from nearly maximum range?
"Sir, all starships have engaged the enemy," Captain Tschel reported to me.
"Thank you, Captain," I replied quietly. "I am aware."
From the bridge, standing before the central viewport, the entire picture of the unfolding battle spread before me.
The distance between our detachment and the enemy's is seventy units.
Too far for launching proton torpedoes and within the maximum effective range of shipboard turbolasers.
My ships are arranged in three formations forming a blocking bowl.
In the center — Star Destroyers with activated gravity well generators.
Our three Interdictors were positioned in the operational rear, under the protection of six Crusader II–class corvettes, and were stationed two units further back from the main strike force.
To engage the target, this detachment, located at the focal point of our formations, chose the central Keldabe.
To the left and right of the screeners, two detachments of three destroyers each were positioned.
In the first: Chimaera, Death's Head, and Point of No Return under the Chimaera's command. We were engaging two enemy battleships to the left (from our perspective) of the Interdictors' target.
In the second: Krueger, Motivator, and Sumrak.
Captain Reder was pounding similar targets on the right. But he preferred to take out one Keldabe II first, ignoring the second.
By maintaining distance and position in space, we had no fear that the enemy would make a rush forward and start draining the power of our deflectors.
But surely the Consortium wouldn't have a complete fool in command.
Why hold one position, fully aware that we have greater salvo weight, superiority in ships and small craft, and certainly won't let the transport ships in the rear of the battle group escape?
So the enemy has a reason for trying to hold us back.
And I see only one reason why they are behaving this way: they are enduring our strikes, condemning their fleet to a brutal beating.
Meanwhile, a hundred Star Galleons, languishing in the enemy's rear line, began maneuvers that unambiguously indicated their intention to flee as far from us as possible.
Well.
This had been calculated and was predictable.
"Captain Tschel," I addressed the commander of the Chimaera.
"The enemy is beginning a divergence maneuver. Inform Major Bren and the commanders of the other destroyers that the Scimitar squadrons are to be ready for a thrust behind the Keldabes and the rest of the Zann Consortium ships."
"Yes, sir," the young Star Destroyer commander replied.
After he had given all the necessary orders, Tschel, more quietly, inquired of me:
"Grand Admiral, do you believe the enemy intends to withdraw their forces to the far side of the planet and flee the system along a different vector, opposite to our entry point?"
"No, Captain," I answered. "The enemy is luring us into the fire of their armed forces. They rightly assumed we would chase after their transports fleeing the system."
"But aren't we?" Tschel clarified. "There must be something valuable on those transports, since the enemy is sacrificing ships to cover their retreat."
"That is exactly the plan of the enemy fleet commander," I explained. "They know we didn't come to Smarck for no reason. And they are playing on our desire to seize their secrets."
"Sir, but if we don't do something more substantial now to stop the transports, they'll get away!"
"Yes, they will reach the far side of Smarck," I agreed. "Frustrating that we won't be able to stop them, isn't it?"
Tschel looked at me gloomily, not even feigning understanding of the situation on his face.
Well, honesty is a virtue.
"Contact the Thunder, Captain," I ordered.
"Inform them to be ready to take up position on the far side of the orbit. As soon as they receive the order, they are to immediately block the jump vector out of the system on the other side of Smarck's orbit."
"Yes, sir!" Tschel said happily, relaying the order through the chain of command.
When he looked at me again, his face showed puzzlement over what he had just relayed.
"Grand Admiral, sir, but the Thunder only has cadets on board. They are unlikely to be able to stop all the Star Galleons."
"The enemy won't allow us to stop them," I declared. "I am sure the Zann Consortium will prefer to destroy their cargo rather than let it fall into our hands."
"Then... Sir, I don't understand."
"You don't need to understand yet, Captain," I sighed. "Relay the order to the Sumrak and Point of No Return. Have them close to a distance of fifty units from the enemy ships. Synchronize our Scimitars' thrust behind the Zann Consortium starships with that moment. The interceptors are to maintain a defensive formation around the Star Destroyers."
"Yes, sir," the commander of the flagship Star Destroyer said, completely baffled. "And what are the targets for the Sumrak's and Point of No Return's proton torpedoes?"
"Vectors two-five and ten-five," I said. "Wide spread. Five salvos against each of the three echelons relative to the enemy ships' position."
"But that's outside the enemy formation!" exclaimed the commander of the Chimaera.
"That's correct, Captain Tschel," I agreed. "If you had been paying attention, you would have noticed the reasons why the enemy is operating in such a tight formation."
The commander of the Chimaera frowned as he relayed the order, then began staring intently at the enemy formation in orbit.
For a few seconds nothing happened, then the wrinkles on his face began to smooth out. Along with his eyes widening.
"Oh, wow!" he said on an exhale.
It sounded like the air being let out of a balloon.
* * *
At the head of an armada of similar fast bombers, the new Scimitar-01 easily emerged from its thrust behind the enemy ships.
"Deflectors activated," Alex reported. "I see several Star Vipers heading our way."
"Acknowledged," Tomax stabilized the craft's course with its nose toward the unfolding battlefield among the starships.
Somewhere in the center of the cluster floated the Zann Consortium's flagship Keldabe II, with support ships swarming around it: Star Vipers, Skimmers, a couple of Crusaders.
Yes, Alex was right — enemy fighters were rushing toward them. And they would have to face them with only the Scimitars.
Not the best matchup. But what purpose would sending fast bombers here serve other than attacking the enemy's capital ships?
Yet no target order had come. But Tomax could see the Point of No Return and Sumrak firing salvo after salvo of proton torpedoes from their launchers.
The ships, upgraded by the New Republic at the Hast shipyards, still carried six capital-class proton torpedo launchers each.
And these are not the torpedoes carried by a Scimitar or the vaunted Republic X-wing.
Shipboard torpedoes are themselves the size of an X-wing.
One is enough to bring down any standard combat ship's shields. Two — to cripple a section of the starship and send it for lengthy repairs at the shipyards. Three — guaranteed through-holes in the hull, decompressions followed by hull deformation.
Each of these two destroyers was spewing six torpedoes into space at short intervals.
In three echelons — parallel to the Keldabes' position, above and below them.
But the fire was aimed at the flanks of the enemy starships, causing no damage, which didn't fit into a logical framework.
Why waste expensive shipboard torpedoes on interplanetary emptiness?
After all, not even the Crusaders would be fast enough to intercept such a quantity of ordnance, so...
"Oh, shit!" Alex burst out, as the blackness of space rippled and rapid-fire mass-driver cannons mounted on the hull of enormous space structures opened up on the proton torpedoes. "What the bantha poodoo is that?"
Tomax didn't have time to answer. He wanted to.
"Scimitar-Leader, this is Chimaera-OCC," the helmet earphones came alive with the dispatcher's voice. "Your target is to strike the generators powering the main weapon of the identified enemy objects. Secondary target — the station's hangars and deflector generators. Use the massed salvos from Sumrak and Point of No Return as cover."
"OCC, understood," Tomax said dryly, adjusting course and passing target data to his squadron. "Alex, lock all proton missiles onto new targets."
"What the hell is this, Alex? They just appeared out of empty orbit!!!"
"Cloaking field," Tomax explained, seeing the onboard computer finish its calculations on the screen. "The Zann Consortium used to use them exclusively on starships. Looks like they've upgraded their military hardware."
"That thing doesn't look like a starship," Alex said doubtfully, just as the Scimitar went into its thrust.
"Of course not," Major Bren agreed, returning the craft to real airless space. "That's a space station. And there's more than one here in Smarck's orbit."
Enough talk — time to bomb.
* * *
Ahead hung a monstrous creation of the Zann Consortium's shipyards.
A space station, larger than a couple of Star Destroyers, bristling with countless turbolasers, mass drivers, impulse cannons...
Covered in dozens of modules and work platforms that looked from afar like scavengers swarming a beached whale, this construct easily obliterated the first salvo of torpedoes from the Sumrak.
And its twin from the other flank, in a symmetrical response, destroyed the first six torpedoes from Point of No Return.
Judging by Captain Tschel's appearance, one could tell his pulse and breathing had quickened, and it seemed even his temperature was starting to rise.
"Well," I said. "Now the Zann Consortium fleet commander's intrigue is exposed."
"It was thought they were all destroyed during the Consortium's defeat," Tschel almost whispered. "The way their ships did with our Cardans or the Republic's orbital stations."
"Smarck was not on the list of targets struck by the Galactic Empire or the Rebel Alliance," I said. "Possibly these two survived."
"Or the Zann Consortium started building new ones," the captain of the Chimaera forced out.
"Unlikely," I countered. "Before us is a level five space station, equivalent in power and defensive capability to similar stations of the Cardan or the Rebel Alliance. Building one such station takes a long time and costs a fortune. The Galactic Empire's level five Cardans cost over two billion credits each."
"But they could also perform repairs and maintenance on Imperial Star Destroyers," Tschel reminded me. "I've read about them. That sum covers not just the station's construction, but also equipping the orbital dock, hangars, and building escort ships."
"Yes," I agreed. "That is exactly why the Empire decided it was more advantageous to stop purchasing new Cardans from Kuat Drive Yards, after the Zann Consortium easily sabotaged or destroyed them. The Battle of Kuat showed that even three such stations cannot stop an invasion fleet, or even delay it. To have any chance of turning the tide, the Super Star Destroyer Annihilator had to be brought into battle, which ingloriously perished under the Zann Consortium's attacks due to its inability to maneuver in such a dense starship formation. The New Republic has a much more prosaic justification for why they stopped funding the modular station project analogous to the Cardans. They simply don't have enough money to build high-level stations. And stations from levels one to three — whether ours, the Republic's, or the Consortium's — do not pose a significant threat to a well-equipped enemy fleet."
"Sir!" the watch officer ran up to us.
The Zann Consortium's level five space station.
"From Point of No Return and Sumrak they report that the enemy stations are accumulating energy to strike at these destroyers."
"Thank you, Lieutenant," I said. "We can see that clearly. Return to your post and relay to those destroyers to increase their cruising speed to flank, keep maneuvering thrusters on standby, and have their crews ready for dangerous maneuvering."
The puzzled watch officer looked at me and Tschel in bewilderment, but obeyed the order, though even without the Force one could sense a wave of irritated incomprehension from him.
I can't blame him for panicking.
The danger to the two Star Destroyers equipped with capital proton torpedo launchers was indeed real.
Moreover, not the danger of damage, but the danger of complete and almost instantaneous destruction.
Both stations threatening Sumrak and Point of No Return are also armed with impulse cannons, mass-driver cannons, and other light defensive weapons, which could have been heavily upgraded compared to their original specifications as designed by MandalMotors or whoever the Zann Consortium stole that technology from.
But there was something even more dangerous than impulse cannons, which are banned throughout the galaxy alongside disintegrators.
Zann Consortium space stations of level three and above were standardly armed with a main weapon — a plasma cannon capable of delivering lethal strikes to any sluggish starship of the Star Destroyer type or similar size.
Exactly the same plasma cannons were mounted on the Consortium's Aggressor-class Star Destroyers and were used in tandem with a massive ion cannon.
Until now, we had not had any opportunity to capture and study this type of weaponry.
A chance unexpectedly presented itself in the current battle.
It's just a pity I wasn't able to predict the presence of these weapons on Smarck before we deployed here.
Perhaps I could have brought a couple of Venators from the Sunburn project to the battlefield and disabled the stations before they were ready to fire.
But no, I confess honestly — even when I received reconnaissance data from the drones launched by Captain Pryl from the Thunder, I didn't even consider such a possibility.
And only the strange crowding of the enemy ships made me think that the retreat of the Star Galleons was intended to lure us closer to the enemy's position.
Where there would be no room to maneuver and avoid a strike from the cloaked stations.
A simple plan to destroy a numerically superior fleet.
The penultimate defense line of Tangrene and some other systems, where cloaked Golan-III stations are positioned, is planned in a similar way.
However, credit must be given to the Zann Consortium force commander — his idea is much more destructive in essence.
That is exactly why I want to acquire a sample of the plasma cannon for study.
Work on the proton beam cannon is ongoing, but there's little progress.
In fact, there will be none until we get our hands on the science team that developed the Death Star prototype inside the Maw Cluster.
Equipping cloaked asteroids and orbital defense stations with planetary turbolasers and ion cannons like the V-150 and V-180 is of little effect.
For the same reasons that the Consortium's level three to five stations, and Aggressor-class Star Destroyers, are vulnerable during the preparation of a main gun shot.
"Sir, the intensity of the enemy's energy weapons, as well as shield power, have dropped to ten percent," Tschel reported.
I watched as a white-blue-violet fire bloomed in the heart of the Zann Consortium station, ready to burst forth and strike our starships.
And then, as the plasma eddies tore from the muzzle of the Zann Consortium space stations' main cannons, numerous spheres of explosions bloomed on the stations.
"Major Bren reports that all Scimitars have engaged their designated targets!" Tschel said with elation in his voice.
"Excellent," I said, watching intently as the plasma braids moved toward the two Star Destroyers, capable of literally frying a ship with a single hit. "Inform the Binder and Sentinel to adjust their gravity trawls for the execution of Attack Plan Tanta. All interceptors are to return to the hangars for rotation."
After the attack on the stations, ninety-seven percent of the Scimitars returned to their base ships for rotation.
Their retreat from the target caused no major issues — because the primary reason for the inefficiency and impracticality of such weapons as the plasma cannon, along with the question of "What to do?," had become a pressing matter.
Powering such a weapon requires a colossal amount of energy. Even a solar ionization reactor, if connected to this kind of equipment, would spend a significant portion of its resources to form a projectile of adequate power.
And we encountered a similar problem in the Sunburn project, when continuous firing of ion cannons literally strips a Venator of its shields.
Our Golans, equipped with the same ion cannons or planetary turbolasers, could not boast energy efficiency: the station's reactors had enough power for only one shot, just like the Sunburn prototypes.
After which the object was left with no serious defenses.
The same was observed on the Aggressors and Zann Consortium stations — for a shot, they drained almost all available energy, leaving the ship or space object defenseless.
And the effectiveness of this weapon is debatable at best.
At long range, it is quite easy to dodge a plasma braid — as our Sumrak and Point of No Return demonstrated by moving out of the line of fire.
"Sir, the Interdictors have redirected their gravity trawls," Tschel reported.
"Excellent," I replied. "Inform the Krueger that our forces are transitioning to an attack on the stations and flanking the enemy. The commander of Eternal Wrath will continue to pin down the enemy starships and assume command of the screening Star Destroyer detachment. Calculate the jump for Chimaera and Death's Head to the station closest to us. Notify Point of No Return that they are free to engage the nearest Keldabe with all weapons."
Hyperspace unfolded before the bow of the Chimaera, which collapsed into points after a short interval.
A micro-jump — and now my destroyers had flanked the enemy's capital and light ships, finding themselves between them and the Zann Consortium space station.
"Begin landing boarding parties on the station," I ordered. "Launch fighters — use assault gunships against enemy small craft. Interceptors — engage in maneuvering combat. Scimitars — disable the hyperdrives and command centers of the enemy Keldabe."
So, the Zann Consortium fleet commander had lost the chance to inflict colossal damage on my ships.
His scheme with the plasma cannons and the ambush had failed.
The retreating Star Galleons will be intercepted by Captain Pryl and her Thunder.
However, I am sure the Zann Consortium will destroy the transports anyway, to prevent them from falling into our hands.
All that remains is a small matter — to destroy or capture the enemy's starships, their space stations, and also the laboratory on the surface.
What could go wrong?
My attention was drawn to an explosion occurring at the location of the station that Krueger and Motivator were supposed to attack.
"Sir, the Motivator is severely damaged and beginning an uncontrolled descent into the atmosphere!" the watch officer reported. "The commander has ordered the crew to abandon ship. Captain Reder is using the remaining tractor beams and emergency thruster engines to keep the hull in orbit for as long as possible. Sumrak made a micro-jump and is assisting them, but there is no hope of saving the ship. The estimated crash zone is five kilometers from the enemy base on the surface."
"The shockwave will be devastating," Tschel said, watching the explosion-warped triangle falling from orbit.
"It won't be," I said, looking at the Motivator, of which at best half remained: from the keel beam to the starboard side. "The structural framework is destroyed, and even after repairs this ship was no fortress. It will break up in the atmosphere, or be torn apart by the tractor beams."
"Sir, we should move the Chimaera further from our station to avoid a second self-destruction," Tschel warned me.
Instead of looking at the flagship Star Destroyer's commander, I stared at the tactical monitor.
"Not necessary, Captain," I said, pointing to the triangle that was positioned on the opposite side of the station from us. "Death's Head has already knocked out the station's auxiliary reactors with its ion cannon fire. Support Captain Demmings' efforts with our batteries: ease the work for the boarding parties."
* * *
The first victim of the incubation abortion approached Mara with a smirk that not only did not beautify her but was capable of sending a herd of rancors into a panicked flight.
She was ready for a hand-to-hand fight.
Jade stepped forward and drove a spinning kick to the opponent's nose.
A distinct crunch sounded, the "vulture" staggered.
Mara finished her kick to the chest, sending her opponent flying several meters back.
With indifference that didn't match reality, Thrawn's Hand once again faced her opponents.
A sweep of her lightsaber — and two headless female corpses lay at her feet.
A shot from the blaster in her left hand — and another cloned fighter collapsed onto the platform.
Her first opponent took her place.
Blood was flowing from her nose, but during the brief respite, the Vulture had managed to recover and assume a combat stance, shifting almost all her weight onto her supporting leg.
She watched Mara carefully. The clone's face was focused, but that was all — no tension, no anger, no threat. With that expression, one could admire a sunset or watch butterflies.
But the absent sympathy in the eyes of the genetically enhanced killer was a direct indication that mercy was not to be expected.
"I won't admit it in public, but thank you, Darth Maul," Mara muttered, calling the Force to her.
As if hearing his words, the clone moved swiftly forward.
Left and right, clones repeated the maneuver, intending to pin Mara against the railing.
The red-haired woman instinctively stepped back, but this shouldn't be taken to mean she had stopped her attack; she maintained the distance.
Having emptied the entire power cell of her blaster and destroyed a good dozen clones, Thrawn's Hand tossed aside the now useless blaster, created solely for killing (the stun function had been removed by the same weapons specialists who had modified the blaster).
The clones, taking this as a sign of weakness, rushed forward.
Those on the right were cut to pieces by a circular spin with her lightsaber.
Returning to her original stance, Mara thrust out her right hand, sending a Force Wave toward the Vultures.
This physical manifestation combined her rage, pain, and self-dissatisfaction.
As with Winter, she wanted to capture a valuable enemy specialist alive.
Yes, she could have cut off arms and legs, then there would have been no activation of the clones.
But she assumed that Orun Va could be persuaded to cooperate with the Dominion.
And when the employer's representative cuts off your arms and legs before the HR paperwork, the motivation for voluntary cooperation kind of disappears.
Whether artificially grown limbs could be reattached after that, Jade didn't know.
But in her memory, after cauterizing the wound with a lightsaber, severing nerve endings and cutting tendons, no one had yet acquired cloned limbs.
At best, mechanical prosthetics.
Alright, mistake noted.
And now it's time to work on correcting it.
If they don't want to do it the easy way, then it'll be the hard way!
Filled with her hatred, the Force swept through the ranks of clones like a kinetic projectile.
Bodies flew aside, breaking with a disgusting sound, like dolls.
Blood and other fluids, chunks of bodies scattered all around, creating a gap among the clones surrounding her.
The girl flinched when she was splashed with drops of warm liquid.
The red-haired beast was almost sick when she wiped a piece of warm, bleeding flesh from her cheek.
Empowering her body with the Force, Jade lunged forward, toward the retreating back of the Kaminoan clonemaker.
A pair of Vultures stood in her way, but Mara dealt with them without even exerting much effort.
The bodies, mutilated by the lightsaber, fell far behind her.
Halfway there, she didn't react in time — one of the clones threw herself at her feet.
Mara, performing a forward somersault, slashed the lightsaber across the Vulture, severing the upper part's direct connection with the lower.
That was a mistake — immediately, more and more female Vulture clones began to surround her.
Mara made another circle with her lightsaber, expanding the free space around her, and then lunged forward.
The Vulture blocking her path lifted her left leg for a high kick, but slipped on a puddle of blood.
Mara caught her opponent's leg, yanked it higher, throwing her off balance, then executed a leg sweep.
The Vulture landed on her rear with a grunt against the deck.
Jade continued the attack, but her opponent had already rolled away, preparing to block a kick.
Thrawn's Hand extended her fist and clenched it.
The opponent crumpled in a silent scream, then exploded like an overripe fruit.
Another stream of blood splashed Mara.
For a moment, she instinctively closed her eyes.
And her opponents took advantage, grabbing her from behind by the helmet, yanking it off, and hitting her on the back with it.
The girl didn't strike; she dove forward in a roll, performing a somersault.
Spreading her arms to the sides, she swept a good dozen opponents off both sides of the platform with the Force.
And at that same moment, she felt someone grab her hair, pulling it to cause pain.
Jade knew this blow — now they would damage her spine with a knee, putting her out of action.
But she had completely different plans.
Ignoring the tears that sprang to her eyes, she lunged forward, avoiding the injury, and then swung her blade, cutting off the hand.
Pain and rage flooded her.
Her body literally boiled with adrenaline.
Jade turned to face the opponents behind her.
The bloody haze before her eyes demanded bloodshed.
And she found the culprit.
A one-armed clone attacked her with a jumping kick.
Mara extended her lightsaber in front of her and thrust forward, simultaneously dropping to one knee.
Two neat halves of the one-armed opponent fell to either side, showing an ideal cauterization of the cut from pelvis to the back of the head.
"Which of you bitches still wants to touch my hair?!" Mara growled, looking at the clones' faces.
It turned out, all of them.
A few meters separated them, so Mara did the simplest thing she could in that situation.
She sliced through the metal of the hanging bridge, grabbing the railing and retreating back toward the support.
The clones rained down like Jawas into the mouth of a Sarlacc.
Somehow it reminded her of Boba Fett's last flight on Tatooine.
Too bad she could only judge the accuracy of the comparison from eyewitness accounts, not having been there herself.
Avoiding falling to the bottom of the cave, accelerating with the Force, Mara crossed the collapsing bridge and landed on a platform near the exit from the cloning cylinder cave.
Turning around, she noticed the clones, clustered at the edge of the destroyed bridge, staring at her helplessly.
Her rage subsided for a moment.
Her brain started analyzing the situation, and the girl shuddered.
Turning away from the mute enhanced clones, she wiped the blood from her face with her palm.
Orun Va had disappeared, escaping into the adjacent corridor.
And she would now follow him.
Leaving behind almost fifteen hundred cloned killers.
"I don't know what Orun Va was improving there, but if all the clone commandos were as weak as these, it's no wonder they were dying in droves until they gained experience," Mara muttered, peeking into the corridor.
Empty.
She reached out to the Force, picturing the Kaminoan.
The Force pulled her to the right.
The girl immediately started running.
She couldn't let the scumbag escape.
A thought pounded in her head — that she had apparently figured out the reason for the "weakness" of the clones she had faced.
Orun Va had said that the information upload into their brains was not yet complete.
Furthermore, clones produced in Spaarti cylinders need to practice their skills — only then will their muscle memory begin to work properly.
Simply put, she was very lucky.
Even though she had killed a considerable number of her opponents, if Makus Kaynif had bothered to give Orun Va time to complete the upload, she would definitely have had more serious problems.
"Damn it!" the girl groaned, stopping in the middle of the corridor.
What a good job I did. I chased after the clonemaker and left the leader of the Zann Consortium faction with a bunch of underdeveloped clones.
"Lovely, just lovely," the girl muttered, assessing her chances of making it in at least one direction.
Having made her choice, she activated her comlink.
"Chimaera, respond."
"Captain Tschel here," the tiny speaker came to life. "Identify yourself."
"Access code..." Mara recited a sequence of letters from the old Tion alphabet, generously laced with streams of numbers.
"Code accepted. How can we help you, Thrawn's Hand?" the commander's voice clearly brightened.
"I'm on the enemy base. A Kaminoan clonemaker has been found. Preliminary — he has a working group. I wounded Makus Kaynif, but I can't chase both. The Kaminoan seems to be moving toward the main entrance of the base. I'll return for Kaynif personally. Also, about fifteen hundred female clones have been activated on the base. They are Vultures. I've locked them in the cloning cave. Along with Kaynif," she added, thinking that Thrawn was probably nearby with the commanders of his flagship Star Destroyer. "I need support."
"Information received," Tschel stated. "Handle Kaynif. Squads of guardsmen, Noghri, and units of the 501st Guard Legion have already been deployed on the base. Your position has been fixed by scanners. We will direct the nearest squads to your location."
"Thank you," Mara said, turning back.
The relief on her face vanished, as if it had never been there.
Right in front of her stood several dozen women in standard underwear.
With no regret in their eyes.
"Are you kidding me?" Jade groaned. "Did you learn to fly or something?"
And then she saw in the back rows the disfigured half-face of Makus Kaynif, who was gesturing to direct even more clones toward her, appearing at the far end of the corridor.
"Alright," Jade sighed, gripping her lightsaber tighter and empowering her body with the Force. "Hey, mute bitches! Whoever grabs my hair — I'll cut in half!"
The clones didn't answer.
They simply attacked.
* * *
The pilot guided the shuttle into the square of the main entrance aperture of the Zann Consortium base on Smarck. The hangar was mostly packed with similar shuttles and cargo containers, among which a pair of cargo skimmers huddled forlornly to the side.
No people were visible.
TNH-0333 didn't like this.
No guards, no duty mechanics, no loaders, no battle droids.
A strange situation given the attack on the facility.
With a characteristic hiss, the landing ramp lowered, and the stormtroopers of the 501st Legion began swiftly exiting the troop compartment in complete silence.
At the very moment when the half-company quickly spread across the hangar, taking it under control, it seemed they were capturing an entirely abandoned facility.
This behavior of the defenders did not fit the usual picture that a stormtrooper-Flamethrower could accept.
During an attack, any base except an abandoned one would pulsate, choked with life; through the soles you would feel the vibration typical of metal surfaces on which people run.
For a base built in the bowels of a rock, not only are the sounds of working machines and the hum of service droids characteristic, but also the presence of personnel!
Where are the defenders?
Why are the droidekas and B2s advancing without meeting resistance?
Why aren't the scouts reporting ambushes, resistance, or even corpses?
"Maximum vigilance!" the stormtrooper commander ordered, who also didn't like this.
TNH-0333, adjusting his flamethrower, ordered his three subordinates — former 501st fighters assigned for training in the Assault Commando program — to move toward the main tunnel leading from the depths of the base to the hangar.
They would advance further, while the half-company would take up defense here, relying on the droids to clear the corridors.
That was correct — it was foolish to assault such an important direction as the main entrance with small forces.
Especially since two new shuttles were already coming in to land.
The squad advanced without encountering resistance.
They passed several corridors equipped with checkpoints that had no guards, which further heightened the Assault Commandos' suspicion.
The first person they encountered was in armor adorned with the symbol of the Black Sun.
As befits an enemy.
He appeared when, with a characteristic hiss of hydraulics, the door leading to the personal quarters section opened, and a Weequay with a helmet pulled over his head stepped out, taking a sharp right turn, leaving the stormtroopers behind him.
"What the hell is this general assembly for when there's a battle in orbit?" the Weequay muttered, taking a few steps away from the Fourth Special Squad.
And he stopped, started to turn, tried to raise his carbine, apparently realizing reflexively that four figures in black Assault Commando armor shouldn't be in the base corridors.
"What the...?"
That was all he managed to say.
TNH-0333 had reacted a second before that.
He executed a leg sweep, knocking the fighter down, while simultaneously snatching the weapon from his hands.
With an open palm, without a wind-up, he struck upward under the enemy fighter's chin.
The helmet flew off the hapless soldier's head and rolled into the darkness of a side passage.
The Zann Consortium soldier ended up on the floor.
TNH-0333 sat on top, pinning one of the enemy's arms with his foot, the other with the knee of his other leg, while continuing to hold his jaw shut with an open palm.
The stormtroopers of his squad took possession of the prisoner's weapon; he tried but couldn't free himself or even open his mouth.
"I ask questions — you answer," TNH-0333 stated the disposition, watching from the corner of his eye as his men spread out to cover dangerous directions, securing against unexpected enemy appearance.
The Weequay nodded.
As soon as TNH-0333 slightly loosened the pressure on his jaw, the fighter immediately tried to squirm, for which he received a very painful blow with palms to the side of his head.
"Last warning," TNH-0333 declared.
The Weequay whimpered and nodded in agreement.
"Where are the defense forces of this base?" the Assault Commando squad leader began the interrogation.
"The alarm was sounded," the Weequay said hastily. "Everyone rushed to their posts. Then it was canceled. Everyone was ordered to report to the parade ground in Zone B of the third level. Everyone obeyed."
Implausible.
"Why are you here?"
"Well, I... uh... my stomach growled."
"Why did no one stay? Not even the duty personnel."
"It was a general assembly," the Weequay explained. "Droids were supposed to remain at their posts."
"They aren't in the main hangar."
"Uh..." the prisoner feigned thinking. "They were apparently recalled for maintenance. Some kind of stupidity. I don't know, I'm just a simple mercenary. They pay me, I work. Haven't received my salary this month, like everyone else in the garrison — I pretend to work."
Exactly.
Nothing else to expect from mercenaries.
"What is the size of the base garrison?"
"A thousand sentients," the prisoner answered readily.
"Armament?"
"Predominantly small arms."
"Droids?"
"About thirty droidekas, heavy repeaters, grenade launchers..."
"Where is the Kaminoan quarters?"
"Well, third level, Zone B, two corridors from the parade ground. They live there and conduct clone inspections on the parade ground..."
"Understood," TNH-0333, without any moral hesitation, drew a blaster pistol and shot the prisoner with a stun setting.
"Deliver him to the company area," he ordered one of his men, Sniper.
With his rifle in the current situation, he was the least effective.
And having a blaster carbine didn't really improve the situation much.
Next, following the signs on the walls, the three of them headed to the third level toward Block B.
The rest of the journey was uneventful; they only encountered cleaning droids, machines so mindless and primitive that they could only recognize the section of deck assigned to them for work.
At the intersection they needed, the Assault Commandos, having already reported all known information to the commander, turned into the left corridor.
A turbolift ride two levels up.
A half-kilometer forced march in full gear — just child's play.
The Assault Commandos found the zone they needed very quickly.
And it was not to say that they were not surprised by what they saw on the parade ground.
Hundreds of bodies of various sentients, in armor and without, men, but mostly women.
The former were armed, the latter — not all.
Huge pools of blood — on the parade ground, on the walls, on the doors...
A few living but torn-apart sentients, upon seeing them, tried to crawl toward the commandos, but exhausted, they quieted and died before the commandos could reach them through the piles of bodies.
"Forward," TNH-0333 commanded, seeing that at the far end of the parade ground, behind a large observation window, there were several Kaminoans.
They behaved as if nothing threatened them, as if the nauseating scene around them didn't exist — a sight that made both his soldiers vomit as soon as they managed to remove their helmets.
Non-clones, in a word.
Regular recruits who had served in the Storm Legion for over ten years and joined the Dominion immediately after its creation.
During that time, they had passed all possible checks and proven themselves in the best light.
But compared to Selid's clones, they were cadets who had yet to learn how to fight.
And TNH-0333, the last one in this galaxy with Colonel Selid's face, would have to ensure they met the high bar of efficiency of the Fourth Special Squad of Assault Commandos.
The foyer, unlike the corridors, was brightly lit, but the soldiers, whose eyes were protected by helmet light filters, entered without hesitation.
"Don't move, and no one gets hurt!"
For emphasis, TNH-0333 released a short burst of flame in front of him.
And immediately, switching to the tactical channel with command, he reported the discovery of the clonemakers.
Which, judging by the faces of the pale-skinned, long-necked Kaminoans, made no impression on them.
"Finally," a Kaminoan in a black-and-white jumpsuit rose from what looked like a hollow egg and took a step toward TNH-0333. "I am Orun Va, leader of this group. Whom do I have the honor...?"
TNH-0333, without warning, spat flame onto the floor a meter from where the Kaminoan stood frozen.
"How interesting," the Kaminoan tilted his head to the side, as if wanting to examine the commander of the Assault Commando special squad from another angle. "You are a clone. The other two are not. Does the Dominion have access to cloning technology? Unlikely that you're from the Grand Army of the Republic — you are larger, but shorter than the products of Jango Fett's DNA."
The other Kaminoans began discussing what they had heard among themselves, completely unconcerned that two blasters and a flamethrower were aimed at them, which could make their lives bright but painfully short.
"Stop talking!" TNH-0333 ordered.
"Answer questions! What happened on the parade ground?"
"A demonstration of my group's skills," the clonemaker said in an indifferent tone. "I released eighteen hundred improved Vulture clones of the Zann Consortium from the incubators. Without weapons or armor, they slaughtered a thousand armed Weequay mercenaries bare-handed. Your command, since it has the capability to create clones and specifically came here, will clearly be pleased that they have the opportunity to hire specialists like us."
"Bastards, you mean," a female voice rang out behind the Assault Commandos.
TNH-0333 turned around before even finishing hearing the retort.
In the doorway through which his group had entered this room, stood... probably still a woman, matching the voice to the figure.
With a push of her hand, she sent a fat, stocky man to the floor, one who clearly had human genes among his own.
He, unable to stop his fall with his hands bound behind his back, crashed to the floor.
"This is Makus Kaynif," the woman said.
From head to toe, she was covered in dried drops and streaks of blood, smeared across her face and body.
In several places, her jumpsuit was torn and burned, clearly by energy weapons.
Her once bright red hair was matted, with pieces of fabric visible in it, giving it the appearance of old dirt.
If not for the lightsaber hilt in her hands and her irises burning like molten aurodium, she could have been mistaken for a vagrant who had just crawled out of a garbage container.
"Identify yourself!" TNH-0333 ordered, aiming his flamethrower at the newcomer.
"Point that thing away from me, Flamethrower," the woman said threateningly. "We fought side by side on Mustafar against X1. I saved your squad from death when that psychotic clone was bowling you over like pins."
"Understood," TNH-0333 replied, lowering his weapon and ordering his men to do the same. "Glad to see you alive, Hand. I will report to command."
"Do me a favor," said the Hand. "I shoved my comlink down the throat of one of those cloned ladies."
"Agent," Orun Va stated, not taking his black eyes off the uninvited guest. "You are alive. Strange, I thought you were weaker and my clones would replace you."
"Ah, is that so," the woman broke into a smile, which, due to her appearance, looked more like a threatening psychopath's grimace.
"Obviously you won thanks to your Force sensitivity," the Kaminoan continued. "A familiar type... I will ask your master to work with your DNA. I am sure you can be made much better than you are now..."
In the next moment, several things happened at once.
The first and barely noticeable — the Hand clenched the fingers of her left hand into a fist.
The second — and obvious — Orun Va's knee joints exploded in bloody spray.
Third — the Kaminoan collapsed to the floor in a pool of his own blood.
The other members of his race didn't even move to help their compatriot.
"I'd climb into a Star Destroyer's engine shaft faster than you'd ever touch my DNA with a finger, you bastard," Thrawn's Hand said, shifting her gaze to the other Kaminoans. "And now a small clarification, you assholes. You are prisoners of war and will henceforth do as you are ordered. And if I find out that any of you has expressed any condition regarding further work for the Dominion to my master, lameness for the rest of your life will seem like the best way out. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Hand," a female Kaminoan answered quietly.
"Well, good," the red-haired woman broke into another grin. "And now, you long-necked bastards, quickly bandage your comrade's wounds before I get angry."
TNH-0333 was the first to hand over his field medical kit to the Kaminoans.
If blowing out knee joints is what The Hand does when it's in a good mood, then the last clone of Colonel Selid did not want to see what it could do when its mood soured.